We went to an open house today in a wildly expensive yet predictably bland neighborhood where the homes are all named after British cities. (Sorry, England. I don't think you're boring.)
I know, what is the matter with us? We still live with boxes (boxen!) all around and our walls are so bare as to be banned by international laws regarding sensory deprivation. We have enough student debt to endow several tenured chairs and it beats us down and ties our butts to a tight little budget with long ribbons of receipts from the discount suburban life store. And still we leave our greasy noseprints on the window of affluence and wanton expense.
DEAR STUDENTS: LOAN PAYBACK SUCKS IF YOU CAN EVEN GET A JOB. YOU MIGHT AS WELL JUST GET DEPRESSED NOW.
ANyway.
The upside of the ridiculous house drooling (because even the expensive-bland is pretty sweet) was that the leaves here have gone berserk. Sadly, it's raining in Portland and soon they'll be so much fruity pebble debris; what a shock that is, right? Today it was still pretty and we drove around for a long while in our portable gutless living room (aka the hamster van).
We would have stayed out longer, but we had to get back for the DirectTV guys. You know how that is, how prompt they are. So they get here and notice that we have not one but TWO extravagant stories in our townhome. It's crazy unusual, right? And since we failed to notify them of the freakish nature of our home, they didn't have a ladder tall enough. Does rolling your eyes burn any calories?
That wasn't even the oddest thing about their little non-installation visit. One of them complimented my practising (Wagner pbbbbbt), then explained he studied cello at Juilliard for a while in '93.
And now he's a skinny scruffy install man who may love his job, but still! STILL! (I told you playing auditions sucks.)
Monday, November 06, 2006
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Lessons from the Randomizer
One little button, so much time. Oh thank you, thank you Lane!! (I hope you don't mind too much that I somehow read your addy as Pinkle Pants.) The randomizer is like clubbing by blog for a washed-up 30-something recent breeder like myself. With this in mind, if I found myself living as a Matrix battery, I don't think I'd be one of those to reject the program. Blue pill, blue pill!
My identity, were I (any more of) a superhero, would be THE RANDOMIZER. But really, if you have eight or nine hours and a morbid curiosity click on that thingy over there --> that says "Hit Me". I am nothing if not a student of life my dears, and here is what I have learned:
~There are a lot of sickos on the internet. Not that kind- I mean the viral sickness incubator type. Judging by the number of posts listing often disgusting symptoms, it's a very good thing we ain't all in the same room.
~Some really do post about what they ate, (like the book says) and as long as they include pictures I'll still read every word. I would never do something like that.
~There are a ton of Portlanders. Lots and lots. Also a woman in Istanbul, a guy in Hyderabad and a woman in Africa. Hi! There are also many musicians, including at least two violists. I am but a cog in the clone army.
~I found a guy working for the Japanese Department of Education, just like I used to do. Lately I've been so nostalgic for Japan, and I can't wait to go with my men. Even a shopaphobe like J will love the dollar stores.
~Lastly, I have one small observation in regard to style. Writing without use of the shift key a la ee cummings and in long run-on paragraphs is the equivalent of baring your midriff, wearing leg-warmers and lodging large pieces of cheap jewelry in your navel. And both looks make my optical nerve curdle just a bit. I'm too old for that crap and I'd need a monitor the size of Whales to read it. Just say no.
My identity, were I (any more of) a superhero, would be THE RANDOMIZER. But really, if you have eight or nine hours and a morbid curiosity click on that thingy over there --> that says "Hit Me". I am nothing if not a student of life my dears, and here is what I have learned:
~There are a lot of sickos on the internet. Not that kind- I mean the viral sickness incubator type. Judging by the number of posts listing often disgusting symptoms, it's a very good thing we ain't all in the same room.
~Some really do post about what they ate, (like the book says) and as long as they include pictures I'll still read every word. I would never do something like that.
~There are a ton of Portlanders. Lots and lots. Also a woman in Istanbul, a guy in Hyderabad and a woman in Africa. Hi! There are also many musicians, including at least two violists. I am but a cog in the clone army.
~I found a guy working for the Japanese Department of Education, just like I used to do. Lately I've been so nostalgic for Japan, and I can't wait to go with my men. Even a shopaphobe like J will love the dollar stores.
~Lastly, I have one small observation in regard to style. Writing without use of the shift key a la ee cummings and in long run-on paragraphs is the equivalent of baring your midriff, wearing leg-warmers and lodging large pieces of cheap jewelry in your navel. And both looks make my optical nerve curdle just a bit. I'm too old for that crap and I'd need a monitor the size of Whales to read it. Just say no.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Congratu- WHAa?
I just got an email that friends of ours from Madison had a baby boy Wednesday night. I didn't even know they were pregnant, so envisioning them with a baby is SHOCKing. (Why do we say "they" were pregnant when it's really just "she"? Annoying.) Getting news like this is the mental equivalent of the one-day pregnancy. I cannot fathom those stories about women who only realize they're pregnant when they go into labor. Sigh.
So there they are, thousands of miles away with a three day old. For me, those first few months with a tiny little eat-n-sleeper felt similar to playing under a living room blanket tent all day as a kid. All cozy and close, the outside world tended to fade. The absolute control over the perfect micro-environment yielded this addictive feeling of complete security.
And then, when the kid is just a week old, you have to take him to his check-up. In the sicko-filthsville-nastoid HOSPITAL! This is the atmosphere breaking equivalent of your mom ruthlessly ripping away your roof blanket, telling you your playmate's parents are waiting outside and it's time for you to clean the toilets.
When I rule the world, the president of the Oregon Health Sciences University will come out to meet me at each of Toby's appointments with a germ-proof bubble to escort the precious babe to the exam room. No, wait; the doc will come here. And! he'll stay to babysit for a couple hours because my child impresses him so. And!! when I come home Toby will walk to the door and say, "I love you, Mama" before showing me how much he loves to vacuum. Those vets- I mean pediatricians- really know how to bring out the best in an infant.
So there they are, thousands of miles away with a three day old. For me, those first few months with a tiny little eat-n-sleeper felt similar to playing under a living room blanket tent all day as a kid. All cozy and close, the outside world tended to fade. The absolute control over the perfect micro-environment yielded this addictive feeling of complete security.
And then, when the kid is just a week old, you have to take him to his check-up. In the sicko-filthsville-nastoid HOSPITAL! This is the atmosphere breaking equivalent of your mom ruthlessly ripping away your roof blanket, telling you your playmate's parents are waiting outside and it's time for you to clean the toilets.
When I rule the world, the president of the Oregon Health Sciences University will come out to meet me at each of Toby's appointments with a germ-proof bubble to escort the precious babe to the exam room. No, wait; the doc will come here. And! he'll stay to babysit for a couple hours because my child impresses him so. And!! when I come home Toby will walk to the door and say, "I love you, Mama" before showing me how much he loves to vacuum. Those vets- I mean pediatricians- really know how to bring out the best in an infant.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Aaaargh!!!!
I just tried to find myself by Googling "rad violist" and the bastards came back all "Did you mean 'rad violinist'?"
NO, I DID NOT.
NO, I DID NOT.
Mwahahahahaha= Look, Grampa W!
It's Toby's favorite new toy!! A DOLL!!!
His favorite doll activity? Gnawing on his plastic hands. Second favorite? Hugging it while squirming for joy and biting its forhead. Third? Chewing on its little pacifier.
No wonder I keep saying we saw the vet yesterday instead of the pediatrician. Hail Cesar!
Familiar face.
I'm sure you've all been wondering what we dressed Tobias as for Halloween. Here he is on our trip to the zoo:
...and flirting with a little girl we bumped into.
PHOTOS by J!
...and flirting with a little girl we bumped into.
PHOTOS by J!
Thursday, November 02, 2006
How cool is that?
More reasons you should stop reading immediately and never return my emails...
In seventh grade while seated near a boy on whom I was crushing, I sneezed and plugged my nose. It's apparantly completely true that that pressure must escape from somewhere (dot dot dot).
Later that same year I was drinking something near another crush-receptor and choked so hard it sounded like the set-up scene for an episode of House. Did you know you can blush while suffocating? Y'do now.
In my first recital at Manhattan School I played a five-movement solo viola piece by Hindemith. It's dramatic, dark, intense, moody, sweaty music. When I got to the middle of the third movement I had to stop because I had forgotten to arrange my pages on the stand to see the rest of the page. Stopping in the middle of a long, unreleased solo passage would be bad enough if I had just done it quickly and kept going, but I heard myself begin to mumble. Uh... I need to set up the page and forgot to before so sorry don't hate me heh snort heh. Yeah, so, the mood- it broke. And then I began to sweat. Nothing like the scent of nervous sweat in a degree recital performed in a small hall. My poor poor teacher.
I saw Ben Harper play in Tokyo once and really liked the show. No, I mean I really liked it. And the beer I'd had. A lot. I liked it all a lot. So when he said, Thanks for coming out tonight! like the rock star he is, I shouted, No, Thank YOOOU! I thought I was being cool. After all, I had been here! I thought I was hip. Judging by the scowling faces and the admonition to "have some respect" I was just being drunk. Big shock, then, that the bouncers at the end of the show picked ALL the other groups of foreign chicks to the afterparty. Too bad- that may have yielded some interesting blog fodder content.
Just one more.
It's not really me, but it makes me chuckle because my heart is a shriveled little charred thing. Sometimes the string players will decide to set our bows in our laps during a long passage played pizzicato. It just looks prettier than all those random sticks flailing about, and we can play faster and cleaner. So in the middle of one of those sections, my poor stand partner was really having a time of it. He was a short, squat thing perched on a too-tall chair. So he would set the stick across his ample thighs, raise his hand to pluck the string, then snatch the bow just as it was about to roll off onto the floor. This happened at least ten times. It would have just been a quiet embarrassment for the dude, except that I accidentally caught the eye of my friend Tom. We were wheezing, gasping, tears streaming from there on out. I am not a mean person. Am NOT! Lucky for me, the bow roller was genuinely laughing backstage afterward.
Let's face it, if he had cried the rest of the violas would have just beaten him with our g-strings until he saw it our way.
In seventh grade while seated near a boy on whom I was crushing, I sneezed and plugged my nose. It's apparantly completely true that that pressure must escape from somewhere (dot dot dot).
Later that same year I was drinking something near another crush-receptor and choked so hard it sounded like the set-up scene for an episode of House. Did you know you can blush while suffocating? Y'do now.
In my first recital at Manhattan School I played a five-movement solo viola piece by Hindemith. It's dramatic, dark, intense, moody, sweaty music. When I got to the middle of the third movement I had to stop because I had forgotten to arrange my pages on the stand to see the rest of the page. Stopping in the middle of a long, unreleased solo passage would be bad enough if I had just done it quickly and kept going, but I heard myself begin to mumble. Uh... I need to set up the page and forgot to before so sorry don't hate me heh snort heh. Yeah, so, the mood- it broke. And then I began to sweat. Nothing like the scent of nervous sweat in a degree recital performed in a small hall. My poor poor teacher.
I saw Ben Harper play in Tokyo once and really liked the show. No, I mean I really liked it. And the beer I'd had. A lot. I liked it all a lot. So when he said, Thanks for coming out tonight! like the rock star he is, I shouted, No, Thank YOOOU! I thought I was being cool. After all, I had been here! I thought I was hip. Judging by the scowling faces and the admonition to "have some respect" I was just being drunk. Big shock, then, that the bouncers at the end of the show picked ALL the other groups of foreign chicks to the afterparty. Too bad- that may have yielded some interesting blog fodder content.
Just one more.
It's not really me, but it makes me chuckle because my heart is a shriveled little charred thing. Sometimes the string players will decide to set our bows in our laps during a long passage played pizzicato. It just looks prettier than all those random sticks flailing about, and we can play faster and cleaner. So in the middle of one of those sections, my poor stand partner was really having a time of it. He was a short, squat thing perched on a too-tall chair. So he would set the stick across his ample thighs, raise his hand to pluck the string, then snatch the bow just as it was about to roll off onto the floor. This happened at least ten times. It would have just been a quiet embarrassment for the dude, except that I accidentally caught the eye of my friend Tom. We were wheezing, gasping, tears streaming from there on out. I am not a mean person. Am NOT! Lucky for me, the bow roller was genuinely laughing backstage afterward.
Let's face it, if he had cried the rest of the violas would have just beaten him with our g-strings until he saw it our way.
Don't read too much into it.
Here's yesterday's page from Toby's nightly devotionals book. (We're trying to rid him of the biting habit with that old-time religion, see?) Let's discuss:
**
Go with the Flow
November 1
Some days I like to be all by myself. But like my heart, this day is God's. Will I get to do what I want to today? Maybe. But God may have other plans. So I won't clog them up. I will go with the flow!
[There's a creepy kiddy cartoon here of what appears to be a young Carrot Top carrying TWO plungers into a bathroom. It's similar to this image.]
Do you know that... you are not your own? 1 Corinthians 6:19
**
So this is why folks think Christians are full of crap, right? I mean, seriously. God's plans are analogous to a toilet? I should be writing kid's books. For Pete's sake, Madonna should be- oh, wait.
Anyway, why is it that so much devotional / bible study literature is of such poor quality? You know what I mean- the overuse of rhetorical questions, the dodging of difficult subjects by resorting to cheap emotion, the refusal to admit more than one argument, the rickety construction of reasoning- these fill Christian catalogs. Certain publishers in this genre must have a dim view of the intelligence of their audience (me).
It's not all bad. I can think of a handful I like, including the warhorses: Lewis, Yancey, Os Guinness, Zacharias, and others for deeper study. I guess I need to get into the kid-lit. It's just so hard, gentle reader, to walk through the Christian book store without becoming either irate or nauseous. And that's just the cd section. The staff are always wary of the chick wandering listlessly around muttering pseudo-swears, slapping books back into their insipid little shelves and rolling her eyes. Last time I was sure they had their fingers on the emergency "Call Pat Robertson" button under the counter.
**
Go with the Flow
November 1
Some days I like to be all by myself. But like my heart, this day is God's. Will I get to do what I want to today? Maybe. But God may have other plans. So I won't clog them up. I will go with the flow!
[There's a creepy kiddy cartoon here of what appears to be a young Carrot Top carrying TWO plungers into a bathroom. It's similar to this image.]
Do you know that... you are not your own? 1 Corinthians 6:19
**
So this is why folks think Christians are full of crap, right? I mean, seriously. God's plans are analogous to a toilet? I should be writing kid's books. For Pete's sake, Madonna should be- oh, wait.
Anyway, why is it that so much devotional / bible study literature is of such poor quality? You know what I mean- the overuse of rhetorical questions, the dodging of difficult subjects by resorting to cheap emotion, the refusal to admit more than one argument, the rickety construction of reasoning- these fill Christian catalogs. Certain publishers in this genre must have a dim view of the intelligence of their audience (me).
It's not all bad. I can think of a handful I like, including the warhorses: Lewis, Yancey, Os Guinness, Zacharias, and others for deeper study. I guess I need to get into the kid-lit. It's just so hard, gentle reader, to walk through the Christian book store without becoming either irate or nauseous. And that's just the cd section. The staff are always wary of the chick wandering listlessly around muttering pseudo-swears, slapping books back into their insipid little shelves and rolling her eyes. Last time I was sure they had their fingers on the emergency "Call Pat Robertson" button under the counter.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Ready, steady... Go!
You’ve learned of our destructive pasts, our love for movie-trailer music as a soundtrack for Toby’s infancy, and our secret penchant for candy corn (we just told you that one). Now, the time has come for the revelation of another foible. I love the word foible. Reminds me of that little scientist guy on the Simpsons who says “flavel” in a strange swallowy voice all the time. And that all the names in that show are from our fair
But none of that is the foible of which I speak… write. Whatever.
I’m talking about my tendency to get all hot & bothered about something !NEW! and feeling like I have completely changed my entire life when in reality I am about to lose interest and run off in another direction, trailing the original excitement behind me in a tattered streamer of shame.
Shame streamers, they follow me.
There’s one for dobro playing, stained glass making, unpacking and decorating, breastfeeding… wait- that’s no streamer- it’s a trail of drool and bite marks. We are still all way into that one.
Ah, well. Hope springs eternal, so on to the latest !new!. It’s National Blog Post Month: the best excuse for pointing a gun at a visitor since ski masks and panty hose. See the seal over there to the right? Mrs. Kennedy made it and I really like her sense of humor (MMMMMWAHHH on her little yoga heini) so I signed up.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Superpower: Destruction!
We have many nicknames for the boy. My favorite lately is Destructo, though Nibbler is equally apt.
The thing is, we have no right to call him this without first owning up, right here in front of the ENTIRE UNIVERSE to our own sordid, ruinous pasts.
Jonathan will go first. Because I'm the one typing, that's why.
He was 16. He was riding around town with friends, and they were in a boy kind of mood. One of them had a bat? I really don't know the details. Who carries a bat? Unless he's on a sports team, and he wasn't. What were they thinking? They hit the mailbox of friends of J's parents! Friends! Hahahahahaha.
I was 5. I was actually the one counting down as the little Camaro approached and then I let my arm down like a flagger in Indianapolis while RJ threw the rocks. The driver- a complete head of butt who was the jerk of the neighborhood- saw and assumed I was doing the throwing. Within minutes (minutes spent running full-tilt across our yard into the house) Mr. Dukes-of-Hazzard's evil cousin had called our parents and convened an inquisition. Spankings all around. C'mon, though. He deserved it, right. For being a jerk, for driving too fast, he was the next car around that corner. Right? We were simply the five-year-old hand of Gawd. Right?
We won't discuss the grasshopper incident of '78, or any other various events that may or may not have occurred.
How about you? Tales of destruction lurk in your past? Let it go, clear your conscience. Comments are officially.... OPEN!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Questions for eternity.
If you had recently seen some innane car commercial about them (it's "they" again!) hiding a key somewhere and if you find it you win the car, you wouldn't think twice about getting out of your car at a drive-through to pick up what turns out to be just a used gold foil chocolate box from the Lexus dealer, right?
Also if you, due to a set of circumstances that are totally sucky, were forced to drive a white (!) chrysler (!) minivan (!!) that smelled of and may indeed be powered by a herd of hamsters, that would NOT make you an instant soccer-mom, would it?
Has your husband ever been arrested?
Also if you, due to a set of circumstances that are totally sucky, were forced to drive a white (!) chrysler (!) minivan (!!) that smelled of and may indeed be powered by a herd of hamsters, that would NOT make you an instant soccer-mom, would it?
Has your husband ever been arrested?
-2.85 ounces
Dad's 80 grams (roughly 2.85 oz) lighter tonight, and if you had a group of men in a line and said, "Everyone with a prostate take a step forward", you could then say, "Not so fast, Mike."
He's doing fine. He looked like we all do after general anesthesia; like we've pulled several all-nighters while subsisting on nothing but pork rinds and PBR. He looks like an athlete even when reclining atop a bed with wheels, though.
The results from the pathology tests will be back Friday and then we can really party. For some reason when Mom was describing how they make slices of frozen sections of lymph node and examine them I couldn't stop thinking of the ginger I keep in the freezer and the way it's slicable only until it thaws.
Not sure why this is green, but I thought it was the most interesting image on google.
He's doing fine. He looked like we all do after general anesthesia; like we've pulled several all-nighters while subsisting on nothing but pork rinds and PBR. He looks like an athlete even when reclining atop a bed with wheels, though.
The results from the pathology tests will be back Friday and then we can really party. For some reason when Mom was describing how they make slices of frozen sections of lymph node and examine them I couldn't stop thinking of the ginger I keep in the freezer and the way it's slicable only until it thaws.
Not sure why this is green, but I thought it was the most interesting image on google.
Dishpan hands= WHoooerdome
Surely it is moderate to say that the dishwashing for a family of five takes half an hour a day; with ten hours as a day's work, it takes, therefore, half a million able-bodied persons – mostly women to do the dishwashing of the country. And note that this is most filthy and deadening and brutalizing work; that it is a cause of anemia, nervousness, ugliness, and ill-temper; of prostitution, suicide, and insanity; of drunken husbands and degenerate children – for all of which things the community has naturally to pay.
Amen, Upton Sinclair, you commy pinko you. Amen.
...but click on over here if you might enjoy a little capitalism with your morning cup of sarcasm.
Amen, Upton Sinclair, you commy pinko you. Amen.
...but click on over here if you might enjoy a little capitalism with your morning cup of sarcasm.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Toothsome days
Last night we watched a recently graduated dentist get a tooth tattooed on her ankle on Inked, and I sniped that within five years she'd be a little over the career honeymoon. Jonathan was way more sympathetic and argued that she probably just really likes her job. I like my job (all 10 of them) but I can't imagine tattooing a body part on another body part. Although, wouldn't it be incredibly geek funny to tattoo an arm-bone over a leg-bone? Or for a violist to get a violin? HI-larious, life of the party stuff.
Speaking of teeth, Toby has 6 1/2 too many. Today he was having a snack and something in the angle was off and I sucked in my breath and he totally CRIED. But yesterday I was all but shouting NO in my best voice of doom as he tucked into my arm, shoulder, sweater... and he just blinked at me and kept on trucking. I think he bit me or my sweater at least 5 times, and there was just about nothing I could do. He's Winning, and he still hasn't even been out as long as he was in. Guess I shouldn't have Craigslisted that wireless dog collar last month...
This morning my saintly parents came up to watch Nibbler while I went to get my face fixed. My molar, specifically, had a cavity. I know. I'm a dirty girl and a floss fake. Why is it that your face feels enormous and full of hot sand while it's actually just damp and numb? Am I drooling?
I like this because it shows that Toby is possessed and also demonstrates Simon's favorite place. I can almost hear him snoring...
Speaking of teeth, Toby has 6 1/2 too many. Today he was having a snack and something in the angle was off and I sucked in my breath and he totally CRIED. But yesterday I was all but shouting NO in my best voice of doom as he tucked into my arm, shoulder, sweater... and he just blinked at me and kept on trucking. I think he bit me or my sweater at least 5 times, and there was just about nothing I could do. He's Winning, and he still hasn't even been out as long as he was in. Guess I shouldn't have Craigslisted that wireless dog collar last month...
This morning my saintly parents came up to watch Nibbler while I went to get my face fixed. My molar, specifically, had a cavity. I know. I'm a dirty girl and a floss fake. Why is it that your face feels enormous and full of hot sand while it's actually just damp and numb? Am I drooling?
I like this because it shows that Toby is possessed and also demonstrates Simon's favorite place. I can almost hear him snoring...
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Plug the Pastor
Our pastor Rick McKinley just finished a book titled This Beautiful Mess and you can find it here. I liked his other book, Jesus in the Margins, and have heard this one's better.
Don't forget if you're curious you can also listen to him on the Imago Dei website for free.
Don't forget if you're curious you can also listen to him on the Imago Dei website for free.
Dear Dr. Phil-
I was that girl smiling (you may have though leering, but I was just smiling and it got stuck because you are from the TV) on the street today in front of the Heathman. Don't worry, I'm not homeless and my husband doesn't yell at me like the cretins on your show.
Anyway, what I was trying to tell you with nothing but my knowing smile (stopping you and talking just seemed too common) was that I actually used to think you were an interesting human. But of course I realize you can't say "used to" like that to somebody such as yourself without coming off as a creepy non-fan which I clearly am not. I'm a semi-past luke-warm fan who may like your wife better except she has questionable taste in clothes.
So, just thought you'd want to know I like your early work. The recent springer-esque overtones imply you are having trouble snagging guests with IQs any higher than Wisconsin temps in February, and are a bit much for my delicate sensibilities. Could you go back to making me skinnier? That'd be as cool as a redneck in the freezer aisle.
So, uh, thanks.
PS. Which room were you in, because I totally stayed in the same hotel once. Did you have the fois gras? Or have you yupped out of that one? What would Oprah do?
Anyway, what I was trying to tell you with nothing but my knowing smile (stopping you and talking just seemed too common) was that I actually used to think you were an interesting human. But of course I realize you can't say "used to" like that to somebody such as yourself without coming off as a creepy non-fan which I clearly am not. I'm a semi-past luke-warm fan who may like your wife better except she has questionable taste in clothes.
So, just thought you'd want to know I like your early work. The recent springer-esque overtones imply you are having trouble snagging guests with IQs any higher than Wisconsin temps in February, and are a bit much for my delicate sensibilities. Could you go back to making me skinnier? That'd be as cool as a redneck in the freezer aisle.
So, uh, thanks.
PS. Which room were you in, because I totally stayed in the same hotel once. Did you have the fois gras? Or have you yupped out of that one? What would Oprah do?
Friday, October 13, 2006
Title Man
Sometimes when people find out I'm into classical music they wanna know if I have a favorite composer. Because I'm a fickle-easy-shallow thing the answer changes constantly.
Right now I'm so into Janacek (YAWN-uh-check).
First of all, check out these titles:
Intimate Letters (quartet)
The Cunning Little Vixen (opera + orchestral suite)
From the House of the Dead (opera on Dostoevsky)
Glagolitic Mass (it means slavic, basically, but "glagolitic"- ahh!)
He did that classical artist thing where he was inspired for years by a woman he couldn't have. (Here she is in Wiki.) Sad that he had a wife, but still, it's romantic through the veil of elapsed time.
Plus, I get to play Cunning Little Vixen with the oregon symphony this week, and I am inhaling it. The musicians, the conductor, the repertoire, I am enjoying all of it.
There are parts that sound like Cage or Adams- I don't know the critical writing on Janacek, but to my ear he is a very melodic minimalist. The way he composes in little repetitive patches, tied up with fantastic (both in the sense of the good and the fantasia) motives gets in the ear, rattles around and improves with each addictive listening. There is such a subtle, modern aroma to his works.
And I can't even name my little posts without hemming and hawing- this man had the knack is all I'm saying.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wish it wasn't so...
For several days I've been debating what to say about the past week here. Lots has happened. In general, I write here because I like writing and because I'm thinking of people who read it and it's a form of chatting where I'm in charge and I like to be in charge. Another thing about blogging, though, is that when I describe something I tend to believe things are the way they come out on the screen. Like they get set in some kind of internet amber.
Here's what I wrote this Saturday:
*******
What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have
done for others and the world remains and is immortal.
-Albert Pike
Simon died today having done everything he could for me all the seven years of his life. He was the sweetest thing in my life in Baltimore, hiked all over Aspen summer after summer, charmed all my students & relatives, and helped me choose Jonathan. Toby learned his name first- they had a deal where Simon would give me a guilt trip with his puppy-dog eyes if the baby cried too long and in exchange Toby would spit up near him as often as possible.
Did you ever see how he could jump through my arms? Or the one where he would wait until you gave him a signal to eat a treat off his own foot? Or where he'd sort of play dead with his tail wagging when you shot him Bang! with your finger? He rocked at those.
I can't believe it ended the way it did, and I think not putting him down sooner may just be one of the worst mistakes I have ever made. There was no way to know, but there it is.
****
So there was that.
Then the audition was Tuesday, and though I didn't win or even advance it was okay. No one really won and they only advanced 2. It was great seeing friends (Yi-ping advanced to the next round and wants to date Toby in 20 Joan Crawfordly years.), mostly. I saw a friend I've apparently been "not speaking" to. I didn't know we had anything official like that, but that's cool. She seemed well and I can honestly say I'd be happy for her getting the job. Whatev, I've got a cute baby and a hot sugar daddy.
Uhh-hmmmmmm.
So then there's also my Dad's prostate surgery was supposed to be Monday but suddenly we'll have to wait just a bit longer while the docs triple check some stuff, duplicate results, get a coffee and a doughnut, etc. Delays suck. But then no one wants a sloppy doctor, so I suppose I have to be patient. The actual patient is. Patient. That is.
******
Also, an alien gnome came in the night and afflicted all but my big plant with Slowly Withering for No Reason disease. That's right- the senseless heartbreak of SWNRD. At least indoor plants are cheap. And on that note...
Here's what I wrote this Saturday:
*******
What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have
done for others and the world remains and is immortal.
-Albert Pike
Simon died today having done everything he could for me all the seven years of his life. He was the sweetest thing in my life in Baltimore, hiked all over Aspen summer after summer, charmed all my students & relatives, and helped me choose Jonathan. Toby learned his name first- they had a deal where Simon would give me a guilt trip with his puppy-dog eyes if the baby cried too long and in exchange Toby would spit up near him as often as possible.
Did you ever see how he could jump through my arms? Or the one where he would wait until you gave him a signal to eat a treat off his own foot? Or where he'd sort of play dead with his tail wagging when you shot him Bang! with your finger? He rocked at those.
I can't believe it ended the way it did, and I think not putting him down sooner may just be one of the worst mistakes I have ever made. There was no way to know, but there it is.
****
So there was that.
Then the audition was Tuesday, and though I didn't win or even advance it was okay. No one really won and they only advanced 2. It was great seeing friends (Yi-ping advanced to the next round and wants to date Toby in 20 Joan Crawfordly years.), mostly. I saw a friend I've apparently been "not speaking" to. I didn't know we had anything official like that, but that's cool. She seemed well and I can honestly say I'd be happy for her getting the job. Whatev, I've got a cute baby and a hot sugar daddy.
Uhh-hmmmmmm.
So then there's also my Dad's prostate surgery was supposed to be Monday but suddenly we'll have to wait just a bit longer while the docs triple check some stuff, duplicate results, get a coffee and a doughnut, etc. Delays suck. But then no one wants a sloppy doctor, so I suppose I have to be patient. The actual patient is. Patient. That is.
******
Also, an alien gnome came in the night and afflicted all but my big plant with Slowly Withering for No Reason disease. That's right- the senseless heartbreak of SWNRD. At least indoor plants are cheap. And on that note...
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Music for one apartment and six drummers
| Just watch. A work in four movements. Turn up your speakers and Play. | |
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